


Flares

by K_T_Tara



Series: The Script [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF
Genre: Beginnings, F/M, Gen, The Script, first time they met, flares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2881985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_T_Tara/pseuds/K_T_Tara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Stamford liked to brag that he introduced Sherlock to Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flares

Mike Stamford liked to brag that he was the one to introduce Molly to the (somewhat) infamous Sherlock Holmes. Infamous to the St. Bart's staff, being that no one dared work with the "consultant detective" - he only called himself that because he liked to tag along with Detective Inspector Lestrade on cases- for fear of murdering him themselves. Dr. Rory especially liked to imagine bludgeoning the incorrigible man with a microscope.

And so when Mike found a new and upcoming pathologist that had been recently transferred, he thought to get the introductions over with as soon as possible. When Sherlock politely -politely!- asked Molly for assistance with an experiment, and young Miss Hooper just smiled and said," Okay," Mike thought he'd struck gold.

Someone Sherlock could possibly work amiably with!

What Mike did not know was that _that_ was not Sherlock and Molly's first meeting. And Molly had not just been randomly transferred to London; she had been specifically requested... by Sherlock.

It all began six months prior...

* * *

 

Six Months Ago

"Why is the body being autopsied in this...this dilapidated warehouse?" Sherlock asked, his lip curling up in disgust. For the twentieth time, Greg Lestrade sighed and ranked down the urge to hit him.

"It's not a warehouse, it's a hospital," he repeated -again- and pointed to the sign that said so. ('St. John's. How _dull_ ,' Sherlock snorted.) "And the deceased's family demanded it. They wanted a family friend to do the autopsy." Sherlock scoffed, but let it go, instead staring up at the old hospital with clear distaste.

It was old, much older than his preferred St. Bartholomew's, and small. Just a small local hospital, with minimum funds and a severe shortage of doctors, no doubt. Not much went to the upkeep -obviously- and... was the east wall crumbling?!

He gave the building five more years before it collapsed.

As they entered, Lestrade flashed his badge at the nurse at the front desk (the only living soul in sight)," Detective Inspector Lestrade." Then he cocked his head at the frowning man standing behind him," And that's Sherlock Holmes. We're here to have a look at Mr. Jonessy." The receptionist's eyes widened dramatically, and Lestrade swore he saw a flash of panic cross her face.

"Oh!" she gasped," Umm, well, Dr. Monroe is out at the moment, perhaps you can come back in a couple hours?"

Both Sherlock and Lestrade narrowed their eyes at her. "We're already here," Lestrade pointed out," We'll just take a quick look at the body then we'll be out of your hair." But she was already shaking her head," But I'm afraid I'm you can't, not without the pathologist present. Hospital policy."

At this point, Greg was getting frustrated, so he held up his badge again. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I'm Detective Inspector, investigating a murder and we need to have a look at that body. Now tell us where the morgue is." The poor girl blanched.

"No need, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted, and both turned to see him holding up a brochure type of paper," We'll just show ourselves the way." Then he was already waltzing off, Lestrade hot on his heels and the receptionist floundering at her desk.

Lestrade fell in line with Sherlock, and eyed the paper he was holding. "What is that?" With a barely concealed grin, Sherlock held it up. "Hospital map," he answered," Had a whole stand of them right inside the door and you didn't notice, too busy arguing with the nurse."

* * *

 Both Sherlock and Lestrade paused when the elevator doors opened to reveal the morgue. "I feel like I'm walking into a horror film," Lestrade muttered, taking in the dank basement hallway with the flickering lights. Flickering lights! Oh wait, one just went out completely, making the hallways even darker.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his dramatics and stepped out into the hallway. "They really should take better care of their morgue," he commented, a half sneer on his face. It evolved into a glare wen Lestrade stepped up and declared," If the pathologist ends up being an axe murderer, I'm letting them kill you." Before Sherlock could come back with a snarky comment about cowardly cops, Lestrade walked off.

"Is that music I hear?"

It was. The delicate notes of a piano through a speaker echoed lightly through the empty hall, coming from the only door with light shining through the window. Fur Elise, he recognized it as and approved of it, though personally he preferred Chopin.

Sherlock nudged the swinging door open and it was like stepping into another world. Unlike the rest of the basement, it was well lit and maintained. 'At least someone in this hospital is somewhat competent,' Sherlock thought, then zeroed in on the room's only occupant. She was a young woman, with auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail and a lab coat two sizes too big for her.

"I thought the nurse said Dr. Monroe was out at the moment..." Lestrade mumbled out loud, not meaning to startle her. But he did, and she shrieked and her head flew up from the microscope she was looking into. It wasn't until Lestrade held up his badge that she put down the scalpel she held in her hand. "Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes," he introduced, then asked," Nurse upstairs said Dr. Monroe wasn't here today, was she wrong?"

"Oh," she blinked owlishly and shook her head lightly," Umm, Dr. Monroe's not here at the moment; he took off for lunch a little while ago. I'm Molly. Molly Hooper, Dr. Monroe's assistant." She held out her hand for them to shake, which only Lestrade accepted. When Sherlock's hands refused to leave his coat pockets, her smile faltered.

"Don't mind him," Lestrade apologized on his behalf -Sherlock snorted, he found that to be utterly ridiculous and pointless- ," He's always a git." Or you know what, maybe Lestrade just wanted an excuse to call him a git. "May we see the autopsy report?"

Molly Hooper procured it instantly. It has been sitting on the counter beside her, which Sherlock thought odd. If the autopsy has already been completed, then the report should already be filed away. So what was she doing with it? He asked her as such, but she quickly averted her eyes and just mumbled something. So he decided to change course.

"I need to see the body," he asked (demanded). He heard her squeak (honestly he did not know a human being could make that sound) and watched as she hurried off to the coolers. As she unlocked the door and made to pull the body out, Lestrade quickly read over the report made by Dr. Monroe. "Says here he died of heart failure, natural causes," he read aloud," Had a history of mild heart problems, to boot."

"It wasn't heart failure," Molly suddenly said, causing both men to look up. Something akin to surprise flashed in Sherlock's eyes and he straightened up so he could regard her and her unusual declaration," Why do you say that?"

In answer, she grabbed Mr. Jonessy's left hand and held it up for him to inspect. Almost instantly, he saw it, even before she explained," I saw this when I was putting him away." A slow smile spread over Sherlock's face; this case just jumped up to a seven. Mr. Jonessy has a needle track mark...user his middle fingernail.

Molly placed his hand back and turned to Lestrade. "I took some samples and I was trying to identify what was injected into his system," she told him, which explained what she was doing with the microscope.

"Wait, 'injected'?" Lestrade parroted, blinking owlishly like Sherlock was so used to seeing," You don't mean-" With a grin, Sherlock was almost bouncing lightly on his toes. "Mrs. Jonessy was right to hire me," he announced, practically giddy in his excitement -finally, a little bit of FUN- "Her husband was murdered."

* * *

St. Bart's Hospital, London

Molly's First Day

Sherlock worked hard to keep the smirk off his face. Molly looked so absurd standing there with her mouth agape like a fish. Idly, he was aware if Mike Stamford introducing him to the 'new' pathologist, but he was busy deducing her.

The white labcoat suited her -it hid that ghastly colorful jumper- and Bart's immaculate lab was tonnes better than St. John's. "Hello, Ms. Hooper," he greeted, delighting in the way his voice made her jump slightly," Welcome to Bart's." He wondered if she'd ever figure out why she was suddenly transferred from her hometown. She was mildly intelligent; he sincerely hoped she already had.

But right now, she was taking too long to stammer out a reply so he continued," I'm conducting an experiment in the lab and require done assistance..." He deliberately left the sentence hanging, knowing his meaning would not be lost.

Sure enough, she nodded and simply said," Okay."

Mike Stamford grinned like a fool, most likely giving himself a pat on the back. Ridiculous, Sherlock thought, turning on his heel and leading Molly to the lab, if anyone deserves a pat on the back it was himself.

* * *

St. John's Hospital

The Case of Mr. Jonessy

A number seven indeed. Jonessy was poisoned alright, and Molly eventually succeeded in identifying it: 2-propylpiperidine, better known as coniine. A most wonderful toxin, virtually undetectable after it kills its victim, slowly paralyzing until the heart just...stopped. Elegant, Sherlock complimented it's efficiency, and if Molly hadn't seen the needle mark the killer would've probably gotten away with it.

Speaking of which, they were going to arrest him right now...

Sherlock burst into St. John's with his usual flair, his Belstaff flapping behind him dramatically. Lestrade says he does it in purpose (maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't) but followed behind him anyways. With him was a local police officer. They headed straight for the morgue, where Sherlock knew he would find their murderer.

In fact, the biggest clue Sherlock had was Molly herself. As Sherlock hovered over her, waiting for her analysis of the poison, she had a tendency to chatter. One of the things she mentioned was how Dr. Monroe wouldn't let her assist with the autopsy, wouldn't even let her be present. Which Molly thought odd, so she came in during Monroe's lunch break to do some investigating of her own and set up the receptionist as her lookout for the pathologist. Clever, but Molly had never expected one Sherlock Holmes.

As he walked in front of Lestrade and what's-his-face, Sherlock texted quickly on his phone,' _Meet us in the hallway._ ' Almost instantly, a reply came. Good, that meant she was someone easily reached in case of an emergency. But for now, the text he received simply said,' Who is this?' Yet the doors up ahead still opened up and Molly stepped outside, gazing curiously at her phone.

She looked up upon hearing their footsteps," Sherlock? Detective Inspector?" She blinked, then saw the other officer," Gary, what's wrong?"

Instead of letting 'Gary' answer, Sherlock did. "Your boss is a terrible pathologist," he said, pulling her further away from the door and letting Lestrade and Barry go in," and an even worse murderer." From within the morgue, there was a brief scuffle heard as Dr. Monroe was arrested. Molly squeaked," _What_?"

And so he explained it to her, partly because she asked and mostly so he could show off his brilliance. Monroe and Jonessy were longtime friends from uni, no news to anyone, but what people didn't know was their history of drugs. While Jonessy eventually sobered up, Monroe went on to manufacturing his own. And used his position as pathologist to get his hands on high quality 'ingredients'.

When Jonessy discovered the operation, he threatened to expose Monroe. So he was killed, specifically with something to make his death look natural.

"After all..." Sherlock finished mildly, the two of then watching Lestrade and Harry lead Monroe away in cuffs," Who would ever suspect the one doing the autopsy? And who better knows their poisons?"

With those words, he followed after Lestrade, without even glancing back at Molly. And perhaps it's better he didn't, or else he would've seen the admiration on her face and maybe, just maybe, he would've realized a smidgeon sooner what would soon come to be. But for now, Molly was left staring at his back, this beautifully brilliant man that stormed into this hospital and shook her world. Her boss was a murderer, and that left her as the only remaining pathologist.

Which was...not that bad. She hated being the assistant to the crude and overly grabby Dr. Monroe. Now...she had the place all to herself.

But she'd never see Sherlock Holmes again.

* * *

 Mycroft's Loft, London

Mycroft Holmes never slammed doors, but his ire was evident by the too-careful way he shut the door behind him. 'Took him long enough to find out,' Sherlock thought, never looking up from his book.

True enough, Mycroft seemed most exasperated as he addressed his little brother," Dr. Davison has resigned from St. Bartholomew's."

"Pity," Sherlock quipped, not sounding in the least concerned. And why should he be? Davison was an idiot, an he never let Sherlock do any experiments in the lab. So perhaps Sherlock let slip that Davison was a chronic cheater and drunk in front of the nurse he had been trying to get off with.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft's tone held a hint of warning, which said brother ignored completely. "Eventually you're going to be banned entirely from the premises."

Suddenly, Sherlock asked," Have they a replacement in mind?"

"No," Mycroft snapped," I'm afraid you've gone and scared them all off."

"They were all incompetent," was Sherlock's defense. Then all of a sudden, his lips quirked into a smile," Although..." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his brother's red eyebrows slowly rude. "I met a pathologist on a case a few months back..." Sherlock hummed, feigning disinterest but knowing that Mycroft was listening intently, "She was fairly intelligent."

Both of Mycroft's eyebrows shot up into his hairline," _She_?"


End file.
